


He's got all kinds of time

by whoistorule



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoistorule/pseuds/whoistorule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tony takes him out for drinks.  Well, out isn't really the right word.  It's more like in.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Clint-centric High School AU, part of a larger Avengers HS AU verse that exists really only in ask box essays.  For Austin.</p><p>Warning for mentions of parental abuse and alcoholism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's got all kinds of time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionlannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionlannister/gifts).



Tony takes him out for drinks.  Well, out isn't really the right word.  It's more like in.  Into Tony's giant house, through his fancy garage where he has more expensive cars in one place than Clint has ever seen in one place in his entire life, through some room that's apparently just for coats that's bigger than the bedroom he and Barney used to share, through three rooms that all seem to have the same purpose (sitting and watching TV) but Tony calls them all different rooms, until they finally get to a room so big Clint's pretty sure he could fit his entire house in there that has wood floors so shiny he can see his reflection.  While Tony busies himself "making" them "drinks" (as far as Clint can tell all he does is pour three types of brown liquid in a silver round thing that he shakes around a bunch) Clint shuffles his feet, listening to his worn out soles squeak against the veneer.

"So um.  Your house is uh. Big." _Idiot, Clint, you're supposed to say something nice._ "Um, I mean nice. Nice house.  Yeah."

“It’s Victorian style, not typical for Texas these days, but my father thought it was classier than the usual ranch-style homes they have around here.  He likes having multiple floors. Says it helps him recalibrate his pensive state to go up and down stairs.  Calisthenics are apparently quite good for making you think.”

Clint nods vigorously, his eyes unfocused.  Whatever Tony had just said was more words than Clint spoke in a day sometimes, and it all seemed to happen so fast.

“You have no idea what I just said, do you.”

“Uh, I mean, not really, but it sounded good.”

Tony laughs, and Clint feels something in his stomach unknot.  “Here, drink this.”

Clint eyes the brown liquid warily.  The bottles it came from look awfully expensive.  In his house there tended to be only two types of bottles: the types that his dad hadn’t drunk yet, and the type he had drunk and had then thrown at the wall.  Or at Clint’s mother.  Or at Clint.

He takes a sip.  It's vile.  But Tony's drinking it like he was born to it, and Clint already feels enough like he doesn't belong, so he drinks.  Throws it back really, ignoring the coughing, sputtering feeling in the back of his throat, ignoring as the ghost of his father grows lead-heavy in his veins.

“Woah, buddy, hardcore.”  Tony laughs again, throwing back his own drink as well, with much more ease than Clint can claim.  “Next round then!”

By the third of Tony’s rounds, Clint feels fuzzy all over, like this purple stuffed bear he had when he was a kid, before his dad wrecked it somehow.  What did he do?  “He threw up on it, that’s what he did.”

“What?”

Clint didn’t realize he was talking out loud.  “My purple bear,” he mumbles through the haze “My dad threw up on it.  Had to throw it out.  My fault.  Shouldn’t have cared about it.  I think he did it on purpose.”

“Your dad threw up on your teddy bear on _purpose?_ Man and I thought my dad was fucked up.”

“What did your dad do?”

“Invent the most advanced weaponry this world has ever seen.  Well,” Tony’s laugh is like bullets, piercing Clint’s drunken fog, but with each new round the fog closes up again, leaving him worse off than before, “Until I do better, of course.”  Tony shoves a shot glass towards Clint, and Clint smiles as it slides down the bar, smooth and easy.  They take the shot together, and the fog comes deeper now, it’s leaden cloud settling tightly on Clint’s throat.  “That why you’re always fighting?  Dad shit?”

“M’yeah I guess.  I dunno.  Never really thought about it.”

“Some of the guys on the team were worried, they saw that black eye friday—“

Clint shakes his head, trying to rehear what Tony said before it fades.  “You were talking about me?”

“Well, yeah, can’t play solid O without our Tight End, but Steve—“

“Did Steve put you up to this?  Man I knew it was weird you wanted to hang out—“

“He didn’t exactly specify that I take you home and intoxicate you but he may have suggested that one of us talk to you and he didn’t want you to feel like the QB was laying into you.”

Bile rose in Clint’s throat.  He hadn’t thought anyone would notice, didn’t think anyone should really.  He should never have tried out for the stupid football team in the first place, but it gave him some place to be that wasn’t home, and he was good at it, not as good as Steve, but he could just remember that first Friday game he went to, when Natasha had dragged him, bored of making out in the back of her car she’d wanted some American entertainment, and he saw how the crowd cheered when Steve Rogers threw that final pass down the field.  He wanted a piece of it.  Just a taste.  To be that kind of hero, just for a night.

And now he’s sitting on a bar stool in Tony Stark’s ridiculous big house feeling like a fool because he isn’t good enough, how could ever have thought he was.

“Woah, buddy, you okay there?”  Tony’s hand on Clint’s neck is cold as ice, and Clint blinks slowly.  “Too much of the brown?  I figured you were drinking so fast, you could handle it, but I was wrong wasn’t I, you don’t drink at all.”

“Not m’stuff ushally” Clint slurs, watching the veins in Tony’s arm pulse, wondering if Tony’s going to slap him.  He could catch his hand and flip him off the stool.  There’s a poker by the fireplace, a corkscrew on the counter, any number of projectiles he could grab if he has to, but instead Tony just stands there, unmoving, a smile growing on his lips.

“You think about it, don’t you?”

 _He knows,_ Clint shudders slightly, _he knows what an animal I am_.

“Hey, no worries, I’ve dabbled.  Try everything once, right?  It’s fine… with the right partner.”

“What?”

“This.”  Tony’s got stubble on his chin that rubs against Clint’s cheek as he kisses him.  It’s rough, but not unkind, and when he slips his tongue between Clint’s parted lips, Clint almost feels more sober.  He gasps for air finally, parting and Tony’s smiles like he’s won something.

“Oh.  That.” 

“Yes.  That.  Natural human response, really.  I can’t help being gorgeous.”

“I mean, I guess.  I never cared one way or the other.”  Clint tips his head, and the liquor beats its drums heavy against his ear.  “You don’t kiss like Nat.”

“Please, Barton, I don’t kiss like anyone.”

One side of Clint’s body is heavier than the other, and gravity claims him, headfirst, to the shiny, shiny floor.

“All right, Hawkeye, let’s get you home.”


End file.
